NOVEMBER 22, 1997: AHMET CALLED in the middle of the night. “What are you doing?” he said. I was living alone, enjoying a quiet life and a quiet mind, and I didn’t appreciate the intrusion. It reminded me of when I worked for him and he’d call at all hours expecting me to find him a hooker.
“I’m sleeping, Ahmet, what do you think I’m doing?” I said.
“You are not going to believe this,” he said. From his voice, I could tell something was wrong.
“Just tell me.”
“Michael Hutchence committed suicide.”
I tried to process Ahmet’s words, but they hung there, refusing to make sense. Just like when I heard about Charlie, I could only say one word: “What?”
“Come see me as soon as you can,” Ahmet said and hung up.
The next day, I got dressed without thinking and hopped into a cab. After what felt like eternity crawling from my apartment on the West Side to Ahmet’s townhouse on the East Side, one of his servants squired me into the living room, where Ahmet was pacing frantically. He immediately began questioning me: When did I last see or speak to Michael? Did it seem like he was in trouble? The questions distracted us for a few moments from the darkness we wished to avoid.
Ahmet offered me a drink. I took a glass of wine to dull the pain. He continued pacing, lighting one cigarette after another. He took the loss as hard as anyone—for all his faults, he truly loved his artists. I realized that by calling me and inviting me to be with him, Ahmet was also showing me love.
“He was too young,” I said. I put my face in my hands and cried. I had experienced death before, but never with someone so close to my age. Ahmet got up and placed his hand on my shoulder. Normally I cringed at Ahmet’s touch, but this time he wasn’t groping. He was consoling. I welcomed the solace. I needed it.
“I don’t understand,” I said to Ahmet, stifling a sob. “If Michael could kill himself, what chance do the rest of us have?”
Ahmet explained that because of the nature of creativity, artists were more prone to dark thoughts and moods. It was worse if they were drinking and taking drugs. His words were surprisingly calming. He had clearly seen this sort of thing before—Ahmet was close to R&B singer Donny Hathaway, who committed suicide under suspicious circumstances in 1979.
Thinking of all the people in music who had either committed suicide or died under fucked-up circumstances, I couldn’t help but wonder if there was something more to Michael’s death. He was nearing his fortieth birthday and INXS wasn’t as big as they once were. Maybe he didn’t want to trot out onstage to play the old hits anymore. Maybe he feared losing relevance. That’s how the game works—one minute you’re riding the top of the wave, the next minute you’re sucked under the water. Maybe this is just what the music business does to people, I thought.
My only consolation was that Michael was Protestant, which meant he could have a funeral. The Catholic Church doesn’t allow funerals for victims of suicide, punishing you even in death for taking your own life. It was small comfort, though. Michael was still gone.
Ahmet asked me to grab a pad and a pen and take dictation as he prepared a statement for the press. We had come full circle—Ahmet, the larger-than-life boss; and me, the secretary who still couldn’t take dictation. Ahmet spoke about Michael’s brilliant songwriting and his thrilling live performances. He said Michael’s music would live on, and he would forever be a part of the Atlantic family. Then, perhaps for my benefit, he added, “My secretary said he had a big dick.” I put my pen down and looked at him, laughing and crying at the same time, wondering how that was even possible. “I never said that,” I told Ahmet. “But now that you brought it up . . .” We both laughed.
Ahmet was truly wonderful that day. He helped me make sense of my devastation. He told me that we had to go on, to keep living, because moving forward was the only cure for heartbreak. I wasn’t used to the insightful, tender, and loving Ahmet, but I liked him. I wished he showed this side of himself more often. He was an enigma to me always.
Over the next few weeks, the news was full of stories about Michael and his legacy. The best tribute, though, came from the radio stations that played his songs, reminding anyone who cared to listen of the beauty Michael brought into the world.
When an artist dies, fans often feel like they’ve lost a close friend. In my case, however, I was both a fan and a close friend. My mind flashed back to ten years earlier on the second floor of Atlantic Records, when he came alive out of MTV and into my office with the biggest smile I’d ever seen and even bigger brown eyes.
I remembered his charisma, his passion, and his wicked sense of humor. He did excellent impressions—he’d imitate Ahmet and Mick Jagger having a conversation until tears of laughter streamed down my face. Or he’d make me play the secretary (a role that didn’t require much acting) while, in a spot-on version of Ahmet’s frog croak, he’d say, “Ahh, ahh, get me a hooker and some hash.” Out of every man I knew in the music business, he was the only one who could crack me up like that.
Now, that beautiful baritone voice was silenced. All I had left were memories. All I could do was move forward, like Ahmet told me to do, and hope that I’d see Michael again. I was racking up too many appointments on the other side.