“Woman With The Strength Of Ten Thousand Men” (From the album, Strength To Strength)
I was fortunate to have several mentors in my life, people who could sense the seeds of what I could become and nurture them during my times of doubt. My uncle Sonny is foremost among these mentors of mine.
Sonny, a.k.a. Arthur Turovh Himmelman, is my dad’s younger brother. My dad was sixteen years old on the day Sonny was born. Because Sonny was the indisputable baby of the family, the name stuck. Sonny did many things that made him exceptional in my eyes as I was growing up—and make him exceptional today. He is a member of Mensa; he smoked pot with me when I was fourteen; he gave me a copy of John Lee Hooker’s double album Endless Boogie; he turned me on to Bob Dylan; he talked frankly with me about sex; he talked with me about God—and without any pressure at all, shared his opinion that there is no such thing.
But more than all that, my uncle Sonny listened to me. And by listening, I don’t mean the perfunctory kind of listening that teenagers expect from adults. He was there with me when we spoke. In some ways Sonny was, and still is, very much a kid. He’s a person who’s curious about the world—about history, culture, politics, and many other subjects. But his ability to make me feel valued and understood is what makes him so important to me.
When I was in ninth grade and nearly failing out of junior high, Sonny played the role of diplomat and ambassador between my parents and me. When they were at their wits’ end, not knowing what to do to help me become a normal kid, Sonny came to them with a bold idea. “Why not rent Peter an apartment in Uptown?” he asked, referring to a formerly seedy area just southwest of downtown Minneapolis. “You can let him use it as a kind of artist’s retreat, a getaway where he can pursue his creative ambitions.” I wasn’t in the room while this conversation was taking place, but knowing that the end result was a resounding “No,” I can only imagine the looks on my parents’ faces when Sonny proffered the suggestion.
Sonny was alleged to have put forward this simple truth to my parents as well: “You’ve gotta understand—Peter’s not your typical suburban Jewish kid. He’s not going to be a doctor, a lawyer, or an accountant. He’s going to be a musician.” As I said, this conversation did not result in my parents’ renting me an apartment in Uptown, or anywhere else, for that matter, but the fact that there was someone who understood my feelings even before I did—and certainly before I could articulate them—made my life much better.
When a young person dreams of the future, the likelihood that those dreams will fade away with time is great. But what Sonny did for me, and what makes him such a beloved and valued person in my life, is that he fought alongside me to ensure that those dreams didn’t fade. Because of his insights and encouragement, they not only didn’t fade but also became stronger over the years. When I’d play shows at local clubs and coffeehouses in and around the Twin Cities, Sonny would make a point to be in the audience at every gig. After each one, he’d come backstage to tell me what he liked about the performance, what moved him most. That technique is, incidentally, the best way to give feedback to fledgling artists. By telling them what you like about their work—assuming you like anything—you also tell them, painlessly, what you don’t like.
By the spring of 1989, I’d released three albums for Island Records, none of which sold particularly well, although they’d each garnered enough positive critical attention to make the label interested in keeping me around for a fourth. The trouble was that the label’s president, Lou Maglia, the appealingly gruff, street-smart, old-school Italian record guy who’d signed me, had just left the label. I was at a crossroads. If I stuck around, it was likely that the incoming president, Mike Bone, might see me as just detritus from the old regime and give zero attention to my new record. On the other hand, if I asked to leave the label, it was equally likely that I’d have tremendous difficulty getting a new label to pick me up.
I’ve never been sure whether it’s confidence, desperation, or just an impulse to roll the dice that fuels my willingness to take chances, but a few weeks after Mike Bone took the helm of Island Records, I gathered up all the accounting statements I’d received from the label and went to see him. I spread the statements out on Mike’s desk and said, “You can see I’m deep in the red. I’d like you to release me.”
“You sure about that?” Mike asked.
I walked out of his office labelless but also a free agent.
I had been recently married and was flying nonstop between Los Angeles, New York, and Minneapolis that winter, trying to figure out my next move, when I got a call from Sonny. He told me there was someone he wanted me to meet. “Who is it?” I asked.
“You’ll see when we get there,” was all the information he offered.
I flew to Minneapolis to finish some demos I’d been recording, and Sonny picked me up at my brother’s house, in Minnetonka. We drove together across the Mississippi River to Saint Paul, parked outside a small house, and walked quietly into a darkened, mostly unfurnished living room, save for some folding chairs and a hospital gurney that was set up in the middle of the room. In the gurney, propped up on several large pillows and facing two large computer screens, was a dark-haired, extremely thin woman around my uncle’s age. Whoever she was, she was clearly facing a serious health issue. She couldn’t move or speak, and I was uncomfortable not knowing exactly how, or if, I should address her, so I just watched.
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