has been a rock star for decades, and he’s not about to change now

[30 August 2010]

By Christopher Borrelli

Chicago Tribune (MCT)

CHICAGO — He’s a friendly stranger in a black sedan. Won’t you hop inside his car?

He’s got pictures, he’s got candy, he’s a lovable man. He’ll take you to the nearest star. He’s your vehicle, baby. He’ll take you anywhere you want to go. He’s your vehicle, woman. By now I’m sure you know ... who I’m talking about. If you grew up in the late ‘60s to early ‘70s, with a radio pressed to your ear, then certainly you know. That’s when Jim Peterik and the Ides of March, the pride of Berwyn, Ill., roamed the earth. Until they split up in 1973; then most of the band, having socked away some cash, went to college and started families, became upholsterers and property managers.

They were in their 20s.

But a funny thing happened: Jim Peterik didn’t grow up. He traded in his black sedan for a Lamborghini. And radio ubiquity? For him, it never dried up, and he never went away, or left Chicago. Indeed, if I had a nickel for every time I heard him recently sing “Vehicle,” the Ides’ biggest hit, which reached No. 2 on the Billboard Top 40 charts, and was impossible to avoid in the summer of 1970 and now sounds like the marching band anthem it is — if I had a nickel for every time I heard him simply reference those lyrics (“Well, I’m a friendly stranger/In a black sedan/Oh, won’t you hop inside my car?”) — I would be wealthy. That said, it would take many lifetimes, and as many Top 40 hits as he’s written (18), before my nickel jar was as heavy as his.

“I don’t know what it means to work an hour for an hour’s pay,” he told me one day. “And I never will. You write a hit song, it keeps coming back.”

Jim Peterik wrote many hit songs.

Today, he is one of the richest, most sincere rock musicians in Chicago’s Burr Ridge suburb, though I can’t be as certain of his sincerity as I am of his royalty checks (or if he’s the richest rock star in Burr Ridge, because Dennis DeYoung of Styx lives nearby). He has a cheerfulness, a puppy-dog earnestness not dissimilar to the muscular, sweaty- with-feeling anthems he built his career on, as leader of the Ides of March, founder of Survivor and for .38 Special, , Doobie Brothers and . And like those songs, he is as heartfelt as he is hard to take seriously, a living portrait of a very successful recording artist and a marginal rock star long after that success has peaked.

1 of 5 The first time I saw him, he was walking down Armitage Avenue, outside Park West, dressed in what appeared to be a loud, flared ‘70s uniform, the kind you might assemble if Jefferson Airplane and the cast of “Hair” had hosted a trunk sale. Irony free, after all these years. Guitar case in hand, Peterik passed Geja’s fondue emporium, a long, lanky R. Crumb cartoon in the flesh. He waved to a fan who shouted his name. He paused briefly to soak in the recognition, then he sauntered on, Geja’s and rock singer merging in a single nostalgic haze. Inside Park West, the evening was about Tributosaurus, the popular group of Chicago session musicians who re-create live the recordings of a different artist each month. That month, one-hit wonders of the ‘70s was the theme, and Peterik, introduced as “an authentic one-hit wonder living in captivity” (though he really isn’t), was their guest.

The crowd, seated for most of the show, stood as he took the stage. I had no idea who he was, but weathered, impish and confident, he looked like somebody — this, I learned, is a typical reaction to Jim Peterik. He says he gets a lot of double takes, a lot of “Are you Keith Richards?” The song he’s about to play, he told the audience, he’s performed 100,000 times. But he doesn’t mind, he said, because every time he plays it, he’s 19 again.

Then, as promised, he played “Vehicle” as though for the first time, with soul. Afterward, the applause was long, and Peterik hesitated to leave. He stayed so long, basking in cheers, the band began to play him off. They broke into “,” the theme to “Rocky III” — another once-ubiquitous anthem Peterik wrote, back with Survivor. He also co-wrote “Heavy Metal” with Hagar, and was a quasi-member of .38 Special, writing that Southern group’s biggest hits, from “” to “.” So, yes, since you’re wondering: Peterik makes a lot of money on royalties — from marching bands, “Guitar Hero,” commercials, ring tones. He makes so much on royalties that when McDonald’s launched its “I’m Lovin’ It” jingle, friends called to congratulate him; they assumed he had licensed “Vehicle” to the fast-food behemoth. He hadn’t. But after listening to it, he decided that “McDonald’s missed a lawsuit by two notes.”

Peterik turns 60 this fall.

He could retire. But with his World Stage series (which brings together members of once- hot ‘80s acts, from Night Ranger to Loverboy), his jazz act Lifeforce, his rock group Pride of Lions, and the Ides, which reunited in 1990 (and just released their first , called “Still 19,” in 37 years), he has a visceral desire to remain onstage, even when that stage is a county fair and only a handful of curious passers-by have heard of him. “I should write more marching band songs,” he told me one day.

I called his wife, Karen. They’ve been married 37 years. I asked if Jim craves attention. “What do you think?” she said, laughing.

Indeed, no stage is too small. Peterik plays local house parties when the money is right. “We were in San Francisco,” his wife said, “and this beggar’s playing for pocket change.

2 of 5 So we listened, and when the guy finished, we threw in some money. Then Jim approached and said, ‘Hey, I play guitar.’ The guy handed him the guitar and Jim sang ‘Vehicle.’ Right there on the sidewalk. And when it was over, this is the best, the guy gave Jim back his money.”

We met at Moondance Diner in Burr Ridge, Peterik’s “second office,” a few blocks from his house. He stood when I entered and waved and said, “Hi, I’m Jim,” as if I wouldn’t have noticed him among the other diners, who sat in cargo shorts and oversize T-shirts. Peterik had the flowery hair of a peacock, with more purple in it; he was rail thin and wore torn skinny jeans; his cowboy boots had skulls painted on the sides, and stretched across the toes, one phrase per boot, was “Rock to Live, Live to Rock.” He wore countless rings and bracelets, and a large silver dragon dangled from his neck. His crisp white shirt was embroidered with an eagle that stretched across his shoulders. I never saw him dressed in less than this. But this wasn’t always Peterik. He was once a thicker guy, a dorkier guy.

“Back in the day, we kept Jim in check,” said Dave Bickler, Survivor’s first lead singer. “He blended in more, believe it or not. I remember the record company saying, ‘Get him in something (cool).’ So he gets a leather suit. We’re like, ‘Jim, no.’ He wanted to be flamboyant.”

And now he is, a man at ease with himself, almost annoyingly comfortable in his own skin. In the Moondance parking lot sat a 2008 Lamborghini Gallardo. The license plate read “EYETGR.” This was Peterik’s car, of course. His “fun car,” he explained, and then he listed the other cars he owns. This took a minute: He owns an Audi A8 sedan, an Audi S5 convertible, an Audi Q7 SUV (to haul equipment), a Plymouth Prowler, a Ford Expedition, a ‘58 Corvette Roadster (bright red, in perfect condition) and a ‘55 Chevy convertible.

Wow, I said.

Yeah, he said, and he’s “gotten out of countless speeding tickets” by mentioning his career too. “I’ve been pulled over so many times. Usually for going at least 25 miles per hour over. If the cop is semi my age or a little bit younger, I know I got it made. I go, ‘You know, I don’t expect this to influence you at all, but did you ever see ‘Rocky III’? ‘Yeah.’ ‘Well, hey, I’m the guy who wrote “Eye of the Tiger”! I played the guitar too! Dooga-dooga-dooga-dooga-Dant!-Dant!-Dant!-Dant!-Dant!-Dant!-Dant!-Dant!-Dant!- Dant!-duhhhhhh.’ ‘Really? No kidding?’ ‘Really!’ ‘Sing it!’ So, now I’m on the side of the highway going, ‘Risin’ up, back on the street ...’ My record is clean, yet I’ve been pulled over something like 20 times.

“In Michigan, I got a ticket. The cop didn’t know who I was.”

“Why don’t you go away?” I asked, meaning why won’t he just retire.

He considered the question.

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“I could,” he said. “I do live in the House Stallone Built. But I’m a flash pot, man. Performing is when I’m most comfortable in life.” But no negative songs. “There’s light at the end of my tunnels. I write social commentary, not protest. ‘Four dead in O-hi-o.’ That’s not me.”

At this moment, Lisa McClowry, a wonderful local torch singer he’s producing, walked in. They had met at a Borders years ago, where Peterik was signing copies of “Songwriting for Dummies” — which, yes, he wrote. She sat across from me, and side by side they talked about the uplifting song they’re recording for a Denzel Washington movie. It was going well. Business done, the topic veered to legends he’s known — Janis Joplin, Led Zeppelin. He once opened for the Allman Brothers. He was about 20. Duane Allman asked the audience for coke. Peterik, eager to please, ran out with a can of cola. “I didn’t know why the audience laughed,” he said, smiling. He left the table for a minute.

McClowry leaned over the table. “You know, I bet he didn’t,” she said with affection.

We drove to his house, which is predictably large. It has two recording studios and many pianos, including one that Peterik said the Box Tops once owned. He showed me his vintage jukebox, which was full of mid-‘60s light pop classics; he bought it in mint condition, he said. He brought me to a wall lined with guitars (“I own 72, no 73”), then to the upstairs studio, where, across from a row of platinum records, sat a tarnished statue. He never mentioned it. The plating rusted decades ago. It read: Boys Club of Cicero 1965 1st Place Ides of March.

Later I called Chris Neville, one of the founding members of Tributosaurus and a well- known session musician. “I love Jim,” he said. “He may be goofy, but he is absolutely genuine. That’s such a rare thing. A lot of guys put on a show. It’s not who they are. Jim is a rock star. It’s who he is, and never less than a rock star or enthusiastic. It’s a beautiful thing. He believes in the rock dream. But then, when you’ve lived it, it gets a lot easier to believe in it.”

The last time I saw Jim Peterik we were at U.S. Cellular Field. The Ides were scheduled to sing a few songs before a White Sox game. They did a sound check, then sat in a board room and practiced the national anthem, which they were also supposed to sing — “It’s like ‘L.A. Goodbye,’” Peterik said, acoustic guitar in hand. Then a long soaking rain came, and came, and the band retired to a suite overlooking the field. They watched sheets of water lash against the glass. They had brought along friends, family, children; they looked more like a bowling league than a rock band.

The Ides started in 1964. These days they play a few dozen shows a year. Considering they’ve been doing this for decades, they are surprisingly warm with one another. “We get paid to travel and haul equipment. But really we’re playing for free,” said Bob Bergland, one of the original Ides. “Yeah, now it’s like a well-put-together hobby,” said drummer Mike Borch, who, like most of the others, met Peterik in grade school.

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An hour passed. Then two.

Peterik, who had been standing in the hallway, visibly agitated and antsy, checking e- mail, stepped into the suite. “Are we going to sing or what?” he asked. Chuck Soumar, the trumpet player, came forward. “Called off,” he said, and Peterik nodded. “But we are still doing the anthem,” Soumar added.

“The national anthem,” Peterik said.

“Right, that anthem.”

Buoyed at the reprieve, Peterik turned to a young woman, a friend of Soumar’s daughter, and sang, inches from her face, “Risin’ up, back on the street, did my time, took my chances ...” She giggled and squirmed, then playfully interrupted: “You’re the singer here?” Peterik nodded and continued singing: “Went the distance, now I’m back on my feet ...” “You wrote that?” she asked. “That’s you?” He nodded then tried “Hold on Loosely,” the 38 Special hit.

“Hold on loosely, but don’t let go, if you cling too tightly, you’re gonna lose control ...”

She smiled tightly and shook her head.

“OK,” he said, surprised. He tried another, his voice soft and sincere this time: “How can I convince you ...”

The opening line of “.” A number 4 single for Survivor, 1985. She lit up. It sounded so familiar. He lit up too.

“That was in ‘The Little Mermaid,’” she said proudly.

An hour later, the rain trickled off. The anthem went off without a hitch. “The Star- Spangled Banner” suits Jim Peterik. It plays to his strengths. It’s melodramatic, then loud, then soft, then soars to a flourish, and though you don’t really listen to the words, you feel like throwing a fist in the air. Afterward I jump in my white sedan and pop in “Still 19,” the new Ides of March CD. It’s corny. But I’m not made of wood. Peterik sings: “Though times have changed/the fire remains/We are working the gift we’ve been given/Just livin’ the dream/Still 19.”

And if nothing else, it’s genuine.

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