Richard Marx - Stories to Tell: A Memoir

Stories to Tell

A Memoir

Richard Marx

This is dedicated to Ruth and Dick, for being the best teachers of love and humanity, simply by example.

F ucking hell. Im going to be found dead in a shitty hotel room in Montclair, New Jersey.

It started four days ago.

I had returned slightly less than a week before from a two-week tour in South America, doing concerts with my band in Argentina, Chile, and Brazil. My wife, Daisy, had accompanied me (as she does as often as her schedule permits), and in addition to the tour being very successful and getting to play for lots of amazing and passionate South American fans, wed had a blast. Daisy and I always have fun on the road. We can be in the most obscure, dumpy town and well find a way to enjoy it. Staying in cities like Buenos Aires and So Paulo made it even easier, thanks to their choices of wonderful restaurants and beautiful hotels.

We arrived back home in Los Angeles knowing I had a fairly quick turnaround before returning to the road for a five-shows-in-a-row run on the East Coast. Daisy and I rested up a day or two and then resumed one of our favorite activities, hiking. Living in Malibu means lots of options for being in nature. The beaches, when not packed with people in the summers, are glorious, and there are numerous hiking trails that will give you breathtaking views and intense physical workouts. The day before I was set to head out on the road again, we hiked in Solstice Canyon, a popular trail we frequent regularly. This particular hike, however, was not like the others.

While Daisy and I are both pretty fit, I tend to have a bit more strength hiking the steeper inclines and usually put a bit of distance between us before I stop and wait for her to catch up. But on this Tuesday afternoon, it was I who was dragging. My energy was really low. I couldnt keep up with her, and so we ended up cutting the hike short and driving home. I wasnt feeling any better when we walked through our front door, but I figured a hot shower and chugging some H2O would set me right.

Now, mind you, I never get sick. Never. Though in my twenties and thirties I battled constant colds and sore throats, the removal of my tonsils in 1993 at age thirty turned everything around. Ive had maybe two or three bouts of a twenty-four- to forty-eight-hour case of sniffles and cough in the past ten years. Im so generally healthy and immune to illness Im kind of a cocky dick about it, as my previous sentence or two would indicate.

I stepped out of the shower, threw on a bathrobe, drank down a cold glass of water, and curled up in one of the oversized white chairs in our master bedroom. Within minutes I started having cold chills. Chills?? I dont get chills! For some stupid reason I did not take my temperature, but rather simply threw a blanket over myself and waited for the chills to subside.

Daisy came into the room, took one look at me, and said, My love, are you okay? You dont look so good. Are you sure you can do these shows starting tomorrow?

I said Id be fine by morning. Just needed a good nights sleep. My flight to Dayton, Ohio, was early7:00 a.m.to get me there in time to do a sound check and relax before the concert. I awoke at 4:30 a.m. to finish packing and get to LAX in plenty of time.

When I opened my eyes, I realized my theory of simply needing a good nights sleep was just wishful thinking. I felt like a truck had hit me. Extremely lethargic. It didnt feel like a typical cold or flu, but I assumed it was something in that family of maladies. Being on tour when youre sick sucks. Its the fucking worst. You cant really look after yourself properly going from town to town, hotel room to hotel room. And the fear that whatever illness I might have could attack my throat and compromise my singing is always a real one. As I said, Ive been incredibly fortunate to have had few to no health issues at all, let alone on tour, but doing concerts when youre physically not well is stressful and a total drag.

This particular run of five shows in a row would all be part of my solo acoustic tour. I started doing shows like this around 2009. The initial idea of it, performing alone with just my acoustic guitar and a piano and no band, scared the living shit out of me. But as I continued to do this type of show, I started learning layers of stage performance I had never known before. Telling stories, making the audience laugh, and attempting to make the whole experience feel like a chill evening with friends was an art form quite different than my previous life of playing with a band and delivering a high-energy rock and roll show. Over time I found that as much as I still love band shows and playing with other musicians, its the solo show I love doing the most.

The first show in Dayton was a charity gig sponsored by a local radio station that had always been a great supporter of my music. Because my performance was part of a bigger overall event, I was requested to play only forty-five minutes instead of my usual two hours. As I arrived at my hotel from the airport, still feeling at least five shades of shitty, knowing I only had to play forty-five minutes was a relief. I decided Id play, get right into my hotel bed, get a great nights sleep, and wake up having conquered this flu-like nonsense. This was not to be.

The gig went fine. My voice was strong. The radio station personnel couldnt have been more grateful and kind. But I was exhausted. My tour manager, Sam Walton (who, unless Daisy is out with me, is my only traveling companion when I do my solo show) got me immediately back to my hotel room to rest. Daisy had work commitments in LA and couldnt join me on this run but was texting me constantly from the time my early morning flight landed in Dayton. She was worried and regularly monitoring me from afar. I assured her I was okay and that Id feel better by tomorrow.

The next morning, however, I did not feel better. At all. Much worse, in fact. My voice was fine, but I felt like an even bigger truck had hit me. I pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt and met Sam in the lobby to make our way to the airport and fly to city number 2, Philadelphia. When Sam saw me, he became concerned.

Dont take this as an insult, but you look like shit. Are you okay?

I said, I look exactly like how I feel, but my voice is okay so lets get me to Philly so I can rest as much as possible before the show. Itll be fine.

We arrived by noon and headed straight for the hotel where I bolted to my room, curled up under the covers, and slept for about two hours before waking up drenched in sweat. Like, seriously drenched. Like, just walked right from an hour in a steam room directly into this bed. At first, I felt a slight sense of relief thinking, Ah, I had a fever, and it broke, and now Im all good. The problem was that unlike my previous experiences with a fever breaking, I could feel my fever was still very much present. I also started having pretty intense chills.

I texted Sam and asked him to bring me a thermometer. Moments after he arrived with it, I saw a number staring back at me Id never seen in my life: 104. I was burning up.

Sam said, Oh, my god! We need to cancel these shows and get you home to a doctor.

I said, Whoa, whoa. Hang on. I dont cancel shows. Just get me some Advil and itll pass. All these theater shows are sold out, and my voice is still totally fine. I think I can get through it. I just really need to rest in between.