To hype the event, we did an interview for the local paper and printed out embossed tickets:
Fantasy Productions Proudly Presents
WAVE
In Concert: Friday, December 3, 1982, 8 PM
Beverly Hills High, K.L. Peters Auditorium
421 South Moreno Drive, Beverly Hills, California
FREE ADMISSION
The big night arrived. Naturally, Mom came, but I was glad that Dad did, too. After all this work, I wanted my father to see what I was about to pull off. And we did pull it off. The kids went nuts. No one expected anything this extravagant: the professional sound system, the lighting, the wardrobe, the eleven-piece band.
The response to our original music was immediate. We crushed it. During a slow baby-making bedroom ballad, I fell to my knees. The girls in the front row reached out to touch my hands, and I reached back to touch them. They screamed. Straight out of the Teddy Pendergrass handbook.
As the last song ended, we looked out and, through the foggy lights, saw the entire crowd on their feet, cheering. We did it.
After the show, backstage was crazy. People who had never even cared to talk to me were trying to get at me. It was like the backstage scenes I’d experienced growing up. Amid the chaos, Mom and Dad found me.
Mom was knocked out.
Dad was not. His words stopped me cold: “There’s only one person with talent up there, and that’s you.”
In one weird sentence, he’d delivered both an insult and a compliment. I didn’t know what to say.
Later, the band and our entourage piled into the limos we’d rented and drove over to the after party. And that’s where I fucked up.
I’d been dating Terri, a stunning Japanese American girl who was in our backup group, Wet. Terri lived in an old Craftsman house in Santa Monica. She and I were really close. She cared about me. But I hadn’t finished things with Penelope, my first love. Terri was a big believer in my talent. Penelope was not; she’d even written me a letter saying I’d never make it as a musician. And that’s why I invited her to see the Wave show. I wanted to prove her wrong.
So, feeling vindicated, I showed up to the after party with Penelope. Terri was heartbroken. She had every right to be. I acted like a jerk.
That wouldn’t be the last time. A girl I knew from Beverly didn’t have a prom date and asked me to go with her. I didn’t really want to go, but the Roxie Roker people-pleasing part of me accepted. Then, the day before the big night, I called her and said I couldn’t go. I backed down because I wasn’t attracted to her; I was also worried about what other people would think. I felt bad, but I was immature then. My insecurities overrode the commitment I’d made to her. This was not how my mother had raised me. I wasn’t proud of that moment. Another asshole move.
My relationships with both Penelope and Terri fizzled out. Yet, in the aftermath of the Wave show, things shifted. Girls came looking for me. The old sister-brother paradigm faded fast. When my folks were out for the evening, I’d sneak girls up to Cloverdale to party. That house was a great backdrop for my rendezvous, a sexy interior, the Isley Brothers on the turntable, the glow of the pool, the lights of Los Angeles sparkling like diamonds in the distance.
I graduated Newbridge by the skin of my teeth. But I honored my pledge to Mom. I made it out of high school. I had a college fund set aside for me, but obviously I wasn’t about to enroll. My focus was on getting a record deal. Even though Dad had said he had more faith in me than in the band, I couldn’t see myself ditching Wave. I’d put so much into the group. At the same time, maintaining the band cost a fortune. Wave wasn’t practical. Maybe, I thought, Dad’ll change his mind and back us. I invited him over to Tracy’s house so we could talk it over.
When Dad arrived, Tracy, Kevin, and I were prepared with a plan to keep the band going. To cut demos, we’d need money for studio time. Dad wasn’t impressed. He didn’t mince words. With Tracy and Kevin sitting right there, he said he wouldn’t put a cent into Wave. He would, though, allow me to use my college fund to make demos that featured me and me alone.
Kevin wasn’t really invested in the group. He was more interested in chasing pussy. But Tracy was seriously offended. Like me, he was committed to Wave. Dad couldn’t have cared less about Tracy’s feelings, though. But that was Dad; he was all business. He reiterated his core belief: I might be worth it, but the band wasn’t.
I had mixed feelings. For the first time in my life, my father was expressing support for me—but at the expense of my friends. These were my brothers.
I thought about defying Dad and saying, “No, it’s Wave or nothing.” But I knew damn well that approach would get me nowhere. The only way to access my college fund was to work on my own material. In the end, that wasn’t a bad option, even if it did mean the end of Wave.
* * *
It’s ironic that Dad, who opposed me in so many ways, was the first to push me into becoming a solo artist. And that got me thinking in new directions.
I thought a lot about David Bowie. Musical genius aside, he was another fashion icon who spoke to my sense of style. I was intrigued by his contrasting eyes, one brown, the other blue. Bowie was the reason I decided to get color-changing contacts. I thought sky-blue eyes would look cool. Little did I know that the decision, completely cosmetic, would have huge spiritual implications.
SPIRITUAL VISION
In search of blue contact lenses, I was led to an ophthalmologist in Glendale who’d done work for Universal Studios. He’d actually created the special effect contact lenses used by the title character in The Incredible Hulk. His name was Dr. Joseph Scimonetti. It was a long ride to his office in the north San Fernando Valley, but the trip was worth it. Dr. Scimonetti, I’d learned, hand-painted the contacts himself. And I could choose any shade of blue.
These were the days before soft lenses. Back then, contacts were thick; they felt like bottle caps in my eyes. But Dr. Scimonetti had a gentle vibe; he was kind and patient, and he helped me adjust.
During these visits to his office, the subject of God came up. I don’t remember how, but Dr. Scimonetti sensed I was a believer. When I said I was, he mentioned a Bible study group he had formed. Was I interested? I was.
I joined the group and soon became part of the Scimonetti family. They were among the warmest and most nourishing people I’d ever met. The Bible lessons themselves took place in Dr. Scimonetti’s office every Wednesday. When I could keep up the payments on my rented Pinto, I drove over. When I relied on public transportation, I took a two-hour bus ride into the Valley. One way or another, I made it. That’s how much I loved Dr. Scimonetti’s teachings. I also loved how diverse the group was—from hip, young kids to older, conservative ladies. The ophthalmologist broke down the Bible with ease. And his focus was always on love.
There are preachers who preach just to hear themselves preach, preachers in love with the sound of their own voice, preachers who can’t resist showing off their knowledge, preachers who like arguing down other preachers. Dr. Scimonetti was none of those. He was a preacher in the truest sense: he passionately preached the gospel, but without a hint of pretense. What’s more, he never asked for anything, not a nickel. He brought Jesus to life—which, for me, is the highest form of preaching.