he layered on top two tracks of Fender Stratocaster to give shimmer to the raw slabs of power guitar. (A few years later at a music/tennis event, the amazing Alan Parsons asked me how the hell we got that incredible guitar sound. Do you think I told him?)
Two days later it was Dave’s time to shine. He sang as if his life depended on it.
“It’s the eye of the tiger, it’s the thrill of the fight,
rising up to the challenge of our rival
and the last known survivor
stalks his prey in the night,
and he’s watching us all with the
eye…of the tiger.”
Copyright 1982 Warner/Chappell Music ASCAP/Jim Peterik Music/Bicycle Music ASCAP/Rude Music BMI/Sony/ATV Melody BMI/Three Wise Boys Music LLC BMI
Dave hit that high E on the word “eye” and made this one of the most exhilarating moments of my life and in rock ’n’ roll history. Everyone in the control room cheered as he walked in for the first playback. No one else could have sung that song as well as Dave. He was born for that performance.
When we sent the rough mix to Stallone, he responded, “Yeah, you guys really did it! This is exactly what I was looking for. But you got a little lazy on me. You forgot to write me a third verse!” On the original demo, we had Dave repeat the first verse a second time in the third verse slot.
So now it was back to the drawing board. After discussions with Frankie, we decided to cheat a bit and grab pieces of the first verse and alternate with new lines. Stallone loved our job of self-thievery.
“Rising up, straight to the top, had the guts, got the glory. Went the distance, now I’m not gonna stop. Just a man and his will to survive.” (In a recently discovered notebook, I found that one of my trial lyrics for the first line of the final chorus was, “Rising up, ready to spring!” Ouch!)
I was not totally surprised when “Eye of the Tiger” went on to hit number one on the Billboard charts and stayed there for seven weeks, or that it would sell 5 million records in its first year and 30 million to date. Hell, we had a 10-million-dollar video titled Rocky III to promote it!
What amazes me most is that this song remains alive and well—stronger, it seems with every passing year. It continues to be a thread in the fabric of millions of lives and it has motivated so many to go beyond their perceived limitations and achieve more than they ever could imagine.
Over the years, “Eye of the Tiger” has given focus and strength to athletes. It has helped people rise from wheelchairs and walk, and it has been part of the soundtrack to the lives of so many individuals from all walks of life.
It seems as if every generation discovers it and claims the song as its own. Truly, in my case, destiny began with a phone call and changed a thousand destinies along the way. It certainly changed mine forever. Now when people ask what comes first for me, the words or the music, I answer, “Neither. First comes a phone call…in my case—from Sylvester Stallone.”
I HAD A VERY COOL CHILDHOOD. Not only was I the youngest child, I also held the status of being the only boy. Nobody knew I was coming. I was a complete surprise. Everyone thought I’d come out as Barbara—they already had a name picked out for me!
I was treasured. I felt completely valued by my parents and sisters. Some people only talk about self-esteem, but I knew that I was special because my family made me feel that way. My earliest memory was being bathed in a white wicker bassinet, which was located right off the kitchen. That shared experience was so special—my whole family smiling and cooing at me was pretty seductive stuff. I think that’s why I became a performer. I always loved the feeling of being the center of attention.
When I was about three years old I walked into the living room where my parents and sisters were cooing over a newborn baby that a relative of ours had brought over. I surveyed the situation with disgust and before storming out the front door to the porch, I muttered, “Why don’t you do something more important rather!” I didn’t quite understand the explosion of laughter I heard as I slammed the door. You see, only I could be the center of attention. The next day I complained about a stomachache. I received so much concern and attention that I complained of one almost every day after that, to the point that my family took me downtown to the tallest building in Chicago at the time, the Prudential Building, for a raft of allergy tests. As the fine needles scratched my back for about an hour I was suddenly very sorry I had created the great stomachache hoax.
Happy New Year, 1953.
My older sisters, Alice Anne and Janice, ten and twelve years older, respectively, were the typical 1950s teenagers, wearing all the latest styles: fleece poodle skirts, tight angora or cashmere sweaters, faded jeans rolled up to the knee, and capri slacks with the zipper in the back (still love those). Janice was a bleach blonde, Alice Anne a brunette. They alternated hairstyles between Audrey Hepburn short and Lauren Bacall long.
Music was a huge part of my early years. My sisters, I realize now, had impeccable taste in music. They loved Johnny Cash. The country star with the oak barrel whiskey baritone became my first real influence after the girls had brought home these yellow label 45s, manufactured by the Memphis-based Sun Records. I loved “I Walk the Line,” “Train of Love,” and “I Still Miss Someone.” I didn’t know it then, but it was the stripped-down simplicity and raw honesty that spoke to my emerging sensibilities.1
These little records would churn at forty-five revolutions per minute around the big spindle of the then-revolutionary RCA Victor record changer, which sat proudly on top of the Peterik family’s blond-cabinet black-and-white Zenith television set. You would stack up to eight records on the chubby spindle and marvel as the records dropped one by one.
My parents, of course, had their own records, but their tastes consisted of real cornball stuff that I dreaded. There were, however, one or two records of theirs that I could not get enough of. One was Dean Martin’s “Memories Are Made of This” and the other a divine instrumental called “Skokiaan” by Ralph Marterie. I found myself gravitating to that major key melodic stuff, though it would be years until I would see the impact in my own writing.
It was the heartfelt and beautiful melodies that always got me. “Big Rock Candy Mountain” enchanted me. This blue vinyl 45 had all of these different cowboy hits on the sleeve, and because I knew that “Big Rock Candy Mountain” was the third cut, I would position myself in my favorite armchair so I could anticipate the cowboy three-part harmony and the lyric I learned by heart: “Oh the buzzing of the bees and the cigarette trees…” (seriously!) “The soda water fountain…” I would let these great melodies seduce and wash over me again and again. Today when I relive these moments there is a chemical reaction inside me that sets off the exact vibration complete with sounds, smells, and intense feeling. (I described that phenomenon many years later in a song I wrote for Lisa McClowry, “Time Signatures”—those sensory cues being the signature of time.)
I liked the spooky tunes, too.
