when Sinatra swooned, Presley swayed, the Beatles sang, “She Loves You,” and the Stones flaunted their sympathetic devil-may-care swagger. The rest of it just sort of happened.
Since the beginning of the rock ‘n’ roll era, the idea of being in, or around, a band gave you license to thrill, if not the masses then yourselves.
In a band, you always felt invincible. Why? Because you knew you were among brothers, comrades, gang members. And if you dared, if you believed, you were Rock Stars.
Any successful musician will tell you it takes equal parts talent, sweat, and swagger to make up the magic formula. Sure, there are ups and downs at every level of your career. But over time those ups and downs become memories, and as you look back on them (like the old pictures your mother drags out at Christmas) all the old hurts somehow feel better and the story seems to shine brighter.
In any successful band, there has to be a lot of chemistry. Sinatra had Tommy Dorsey, then Nelson Riddle. Hell, he had the Rat Pack. Elvis had D. J. Fontana, Scotty Moore, then the Colonel and the Memphis Mafia. Paul had John, George, and Ringo. Mick had Keith and Charlie. Well, you get the idea. Me? I had Tico, I had David, and I had Richie.
For twenty-five years, Richie Sambora has been my right hand—the brother, partner, and friend you hope to one day find from the time when you’re a kid. I tell people—and I mean this as the highest compliment—you would be lucky to call him your friend. He has the talent and desire that set him apart from the average guy slinging a six-string around. Sure, there are loads of guys who can play. There are lots of guys who can sing. But there is—and only ever will be—one Richie Sambora.
In any band, each member has a job to do. Tico Torres not only holds the bottom down sonically but has, for a long time, been the voice of reason—the elder statesman, if you will. He once said to me, “You know I love you. I’ve been watching your ass for the last twenty-five years.” He has watched me guide this ship’s course since its inception. He had the faith to leave a successful band with a recording contract for a kid, a garage, and a dream. I hope he thinks it was worth it. I’m sure glad he chose to come along.
David Bryan has played in bands with me, on and off, since I was sixteen. I remember his father had a van and he had a Hammond B3. Dave might have been seventeen when we first played together. I like to bust him because he’s twenty-two days older than I am. He’s old. He’s also a very funny guy who has added his share of fun to our mix. Now he’s a big shot on Broadway, and of course he won’t need us anymore. At least I can say, “I knew him when …”
I felt a lot of reservations about doing this book and filming this movie. Why? Because I’ve always said our book isn’t written yet. I may have been at this for a quarter of a century, but in a lot of ways I feel like we’re just getting started. One thing we don’t do around here is glide.
OK. I’ll admit it. We actually enjoy what we do for a living. We make records. We sing for thousands of people every night. What’s not to love? Each other? Maybe, some nights. But I’ll tell you what. I can say something bad about one of my guys and that’s OK. If you try it, I’ll knock you out.
Lost Highway tour, XCEL Energy Center, St. Paul, MN, March 2008.
Phil Griffin
I’d like to thank so many people here on this page—like Paul Korzilius. P. K. has done everything as a manager that a client or friend could ever ask for. He doesn’t know the meaning of the words “can’t,” “won’t,” or “no”—unless he has to say them to the promoter or record company. Sometimes I think he does it just for fun. There is a reason the Lost Highway tour was the biggest tour in the world for 2008: Paul Korzilius.
Hugh McDonald has played bass for me longer than there’s been a Bon Jovi. He actually played on
Since the beginning of the rock ‘n’ roll era, the idea of being in, or around, a band gave you license to thrill, if not the masses then yourselves.
In a band, you always felt invincible. Why? Because you knew you were among brothers, comrades, gang members. And if you dared, if you believed, you were Rock Stars.
Any successful musician will tell you it takes equal parts talent, sweat, and swagger to make up the magic formula. Sure, there are ups and downs at every level of your career. But over time those ups and downs become memories, and as you look back on them (like the old pictures your mother drags out at Christmas) all the old hurts somehow feel better and the story seems to shine brighter.
In any successful band, there has to be a lot of chemistry. Sinatra had Tommy Dorsey, then Nelson Riddle. Hell, he had the Rat Pack. Elvis had D. J. Fontana, Scotty Moore, then the Colonel and the Memphis Mafia. Paul had John, George, and Ringo. Mick had Keith and Charlie. Well, you get the idea. Me? I had Tico, I had David, and I had Richie.
For twenty-five years, Richie Sambora has been my right hand—the brother, partner, and friend you hope to one day find from the time when you’re a kid. I tell people—and I mean this as the highest compliment—you would be lucky to call him your friend. He has the talent and desire that set him apart from the average guy slinging a six-string around. Sure, there are loads of guys who can play. There are lots of guys who can sing. But there is—and only ever will be—one Richie Sambora.
In any band, each member has a job to do. Tico Torres not only holds the bottom down sonically but has, for a long time, been the voice of reason—the elder statesman, if you will. He once said to me, “You know I love you. I’ve been watching your ass for the last twenty-five years.” He has watched me guide this ship’s course since its inception. He had the faith to leave a successful band with a recording contract for a kid, a garage, and a dream. I hope he thinks it was worth it. I’m sure glad he chose to come along.
David Bryan has played in bands with me, on and off, since I was sixteen. I remember his father had a van and he had a Hammond B3. Dave might have been seventeen when we first played together. I like to bust him because he’s twenty-two days older than I am. He’s old. He’s also a very funny guy who has added his share of fun to our mix. Now he’s a big shot on Broadway, and of course he won’t need us anymore. At least I can say, “I knew him when …”
I felt a lot of reservations about doing this book and filming this movie. Why? Because I’ve always said our book isn’t written yet. I may have been at this for a quarter of a century, but in a lot of ways I feel like we’re just getting started. One thing we don’t do around here is glide.
OK. I’ll admit it. We actually enjoy what we do for a living. We make records. We sing for thousands of people every night. What’s not to love? Each other? Maybe, some nights. But I’ll tell you what. I can say something bad about one of my guys and that’s OK. If you try it, I’ll knock you out.
Lost Highway tour, XCEL Energy Center, St. Paul, MN, March 2008.
Phil Griffin
I’d like to thank so many people here on this page—like Paul Korzilius. P. K. has done everything as a manager that a client or friend could ever ask for. He doesn’t know the meaning of the words “can’t,” “won’t,” or “no”—unless he has to say them to the promoter or record company. Sometimes I think he does it just for fun. There is a reason the Lost Highway tour was the biggest tour in the world for 2008: Paul Korzilius.
Hugh McDonald has played bass for me longer than there’s been a Bon Jovi. He actually played on
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