“DOROTHY, IT’S CHRIS MURPHY CALLING. How are you, love?”
Chris Murphy managed the band INXS. He was handsome and had perfect manners, along with a pleasing Australian accent. INXS had blown up in Australia, but despite their charismatic and sexy front man, Michael Hutchence, and several radio-ready rock songs with solid hooks from their previous albums, they had yet to break in America. They’d just recorded a new album, Kick, and Atlantic didn’t want to release it. According to Rolling Stone, after listening to it for the first time, Doug offered the band $1 million to record another album, saying, “This is shit.” The band believed in it, and Chris Murphy set up a secret meeting with Andrea Ganis, the VP of Top 40 promotion, to get the singles on the radio. Meanwhile, he booked a college tour on the band’s dime. The album started to take off, and Atlantic relented, inviting the band to America for a huge release party.
We also had a new tool to break INXS, one that had not been available in the past: MTV. MTV was only a few years old, but music videos were already competing with radio play for the ultimate power to break a band. MTV had several advantages. If a radio station played a song, say, in New York, it only reached one market. If a video played on MTV, it reached the entire country. Also, MTV played the videos on a loop all day. In short, it was a marketer’s dream.
Because INXS was such a visual band, MTV was the perfect medium for them. The band had made a deal with Joel Schumacher, director of St. Elmo’s Fire and The Lost Boys. In return for appearing on the Lost Boys soundtrack, Schumacher would direct the video for the new INXS single, “Devil Inside.” (The video was nominated for Best Editing at the 1988 MTV Video Music Awards, losing to another INXS single, “Need You Tonight”/“Mediate.”)
“Any updates from Joel?” Chris asked.
“No, I haven’t heard from him,” I said. “As soon as I get the schedule for the shoot, I’ll fax it over.”
“Thanks, love.”
A few days later, Atlantic began gearing up for the Kick release. The office hummed with energy. Pins, T-shirts, photos, and jackets, all with the Kick/INXS logo on them, lay strewn about. Atlantic had booked Rockefeller Center for the release party, complete with a performance by INXS in the courtyard where they set up the ice skating rink at Christmas.
I should have felt excited, but I was dizzy from the constant clanging of the phone. It rang again, and I answered. As I said my normal “Ahmet Ertegun’s office,” I felt a presence standing in my doorway. I looked up and saw Michael Hutchence in all his glory. He motioned to me that he wanted to smoke, and I waved him in, pointing to my chair. He closed my door behind him and sat down. I hung up the phone, my heart pounding.
“I’m Dorothy, Mr. Ertegun’s secretary.”
“I’m—” he started, but I cut him off.
“I know who you are!”
Michael had grown his hair long, a change from his look in the video for the band’s previous single, “What You Need.” He had large brown eyes, just like me. He had high cheekbones, just like me. His body was thin like mine. His lips were impossibly full. He wore jeans and a black T-shirt and spoke with a bewitching accent. I had never seen a man so beautiful.
Michael took out a cigarette, and I lit it for him. I told him I loved the videos for “Need You Tonight” and “Mediate.” I even began to sing: “Mediate, hallucinate, love your mate.” He laughed and smiled at me. Clearly, I couldn’t hold a note.
Michael sat quietly smoking, but I had work to do. Ahmet had requested that I mail some promotional CDs, so I went to the cabinet to get them. As I struggled on my tippy-toes to get the CDs from the top shelf, I felt Michael on my back leaning with his arm on me to reach them for me. I slowly turned around and our eyes met. Both of us were grinning and breathing hard.
We separated, and he said he had to be getting back or they would all come looking for him. I could barely speak so I just smiled and waved. He opened the door, and just like that, he was gone. I fixed my skirt and thought, Holy shit, this is the greatest job ever.
Then, as if to ruin the mood, Tunc walked in.
“You were blowing Michael Hutchence in here?” he said.
“I was not,” I said. “Why don’t you blow him?”
“Maybe I will. He’s so pretty.”
“Don’t you have any work to do?” I said. “Doesn’t Phil Collins need a manicure? Doesn’t Julian Lennon need some coke?”
“Why are you so nasty?” he asked.
“Why are you a degenerate?” I shot back.
Tunc turned white. I didn’t understand it. He couldn’t possibly care what I said about him. Then I saw Michael standing in the hallway. He’d heard everything we said. He walked back toward us and spoke to Tunc in an authoritative tone.
“Say you’re sorry to her right now, or I will make you say it,” Michael said. “She’s a lady; don’t talk to her that way.”
What? I was a lady? I had never heard anyone in the music business call me that before. My hero! The feeling of a man sticking up for me was new and exciting. It made me feel important. It also turned me on.
“I’m sorry,” Tunc said, sheepishly.
I stuck my tongue out at him. Ahmet came whipping around the corner and stopped to greet Michael. He never stopped to talk to an employee—that is, a peasant—but he always lit up when he saw one of his artists. He shook Michael’s hand and whispered, “Come by my office after you’re done. I got hash.”
Ahmet went into his office, and the dreaded intercom on my desk buzzed.
“Come in here,” he said.
I picked up the mail folders, my steno pad, and his pile of messages, and went in. Ahmet was sitting back in his chair with his glasses on his head.
“You were talking to Michael?”
“Yes.”
“About what?”
I told Ahmet that he came into my office for a cigarette and that was it, but I was talking fast, almost out of breath. Ahmet sensed my excitement. He leaned back even more in his chair, clasped his hands, and had me light a cigarette for him. He sat for a moment deep in thought, a signal that he was about to have another of his brilliant ideas. Ahmet gave bad advice, yes, but his ideas were the stuff legends are made of. His latest brilliant idea was to start the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. He was in talks with famed architect I. M. Pei to build it in Cleveland. I couldn’t wait to hear what he was cooking up for me.
He repeated the information I had given him, building his case like a prosecutor: “Michael came into your office to smoke a cigarette. You talked to each other for a while. You clearly liked it.” It was dangerous to show emotion in front of Ahmet—any sign of weakness let him know how he could fuck with you. Try as I might, though, I couldn’t hide my delight. I nodded at everything he said. Ahmet thought a moment longer and gave his verdict: “You should go out with him.”
No shit, Ahmet. He’s a hot, rich singer. I’d like to marry him! Of course, I didn’t say that. Instead, giggling, I said, “I don’t think I’m pretty enough for him. He’s beautiful.” I always felt extremely insecure about my looks, especially around a good-looking man.
Ahmet replied, “You’ll do. Besides, why did God give you a pussy if you’re not going to use it?” Disregarding the crudity, I thought it was one of his better ideas. As soon as I got back to my desk, Ahmet’s line lit up.
“Ahmet Ertegun’s office,” I said.
“Is this Dorothy?” the voice said.
“Speaking,” I said, smiling at the Australian accent.
“This is Michael Hutchence.”
“Oh, hi, Michael. I’ll get Ahmet.”
“Actually, I called for you. Care to meet me for a drink after you get finished with work?”
“Oh . . . sure,” I said casually, as if I had rock stars calling every day with similar offers. “Meet me on the Fifty-First Street side of the building at nine o’clock. And by the way . . . call me Bebe.”