Blue Period

I h

ave a theory that every seven years we live a completely different life. For instance, when I was 14, I joined a band--the Echoes. The band performed its first gig, and I realized at that point that playing rock 'n' roll was what I wanted to do. It was at the Holy Family Church in Hicksville, N.Y. Five guys were in the band. We all had the same outfits--a royal blue jacket with a black velvet collar and black pants. And we played a mix of Beatles songs and surf instrumentals. There were probably 150 to 200 people in the audience. I played an organ and sang only incidentally. But I was one of the guys in the band who sang the best, so they gave me a microphone. I loved the noise we were making. It clicked.

I looked down, and this girl I had a major crush on, whom I had always been too shy to talk to--Virginia from Only the Good Die Young--was looking at me. I thought to myself, Oh, my God, Virginia is actually looking at me! And everybody was dancing and having a great time. At the end of the night, the priest gave each of us musicians something like $15. In 1964 this was equivalent to, like, $15,000. You mean you get paid for this? I thought. I knew at that moment: I was going to play rock 'n' roll. I was going to write it, sing it, perform it and record it. I was going to live it.

And then at age 21--another turning point. The band thing wasn't working. I had no money. I had had a series of jobs like oystering, landscaping, pumping gas. I was homeless. I slept in Laundromats or in cars. I was crashing at friends' houses. I'd sneak into my mom's house and sleep there. I didn't want to move back home; I didn't want to admit defeat.

I actually tried to commit suicide at 21. I drank furniture polish. I had no purpose in life, and I thought it was all over. I checked myself into an observation ward [in a hospital] for a while because I knew I was suicidal. I wanted to get some help. And I had an epiphany. I saw people who had profound emotional problems. These people were manic-depressives and paranoid schizophrenics. I looked around and said to myself, I don't have any problems. I realized all I was doing was being absurdly self-absorbed and giving in to self-pity, and I wanted to just get out. So I told them what they wanted to hear. I took the medicine. I walked around with the bathrobe open in the a__, like in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. People were moaning and groaning all night, and I thought, Please, just let me get out of here, and I'll never be that stupid again.

This experience was one of the best things I have ever gone through. I have never given in to any kind of self-pity for longer than two minutes since then. I realized I can solve my own problems. It showed me that what I thought was my own hell was nothing compared with the hell of others. I have taken that 21-year-old with me throughout my life. He has helped me through the deaths of friends, family matters, personal-relationship issues, minefields of the music business, writer's block.

For the next seven years I was on the road, working as a solo artist, building up to what eventually became a huge album--The Stranger--which came out when I was 28. This completely changed my life. The Stranger became the biggest-selling album in the history of Columbia Records. There were four hit singles. We were headliners and would sell out coliseums, whereas I had been only an opening act for a number of years prior. I became a rock star in every sense of the word. I knew that everything was going to be different. I knew I wasn't going to be anonymous anymore.

At 35, I married Christie Brinkley and had a kid--Alexa. It was the era of the Uptown Girl, Downtown Guy. Becoming a father was a profoundly life-changing experience. That was the single most important moment of my life, when that little girl was born. I grew up with no father; my father was never around. So I swore that I would be there for my child. It's as if there were a fault line, and every seven years I have an earthquake. And each of them has made me steadier on my feet.