Eddie Money “Ready Eddie”
Long Island. Unless you’ve actually lived there, it can be hard to describe. Most people can’t distinguish it culturally from Queens, or Brooklyn, or Manhattan, for that matter. Some conflate it with New Jersey. It’s only a few miles away from the city, but it may as well be another planet. Long Islanders have a genetic call that pulls them towards bridges and tunnels. But that gravity is in conflict with a “you think you’re better than me?” posture that requires the natives to stand their ground. The island’s surrounding beaches are among the most beautiful in the country, if not the entire world. But the water that runs through those suburbs is completely full of shit.
For decades, Long Island was considered a tony outpost of Manhattan, defined by mansions and littered with fishermen. The trappings of wealth are still evident, especially as you travel further east, to the Hamptons. In the summer, dilettantes, investment bankers and everyone in between make the trek out east for the beaches — yes — but also for the proximity to yachts and celebrities. Underneath the natural beauty and unnatural glamour, however, is where Long Island gets very weird.
After the second World War, real estate developers who predicted the Baby Boom began to pounce on Long Island. It’s scenery and proximity were unmistakable. And, soon enough, droves of upwardly mobile immigrant families -- Irish, then Italian, then Jewish -- left their first island for their second one. With this migration, came a booming middle class, the roots of tribalism and not so latent racism. Many of the communities were insular and all-white. Others did not allow Jewish residents. Nevertheless, these suburbs photographed beautifully and the new lots sold quickly. Within a decade, the natives were overrun by an ambitious, but parochial, generation of new homeowners.
This tectonic change -- from open and quiet to dense and loud -- created a petri dish for odd cultural experiments and mutant outcomes. The music of Long Island, for instance, is wholly unlike that of Manhattan’s outer boroughs. Brooklyn, as it ascended, produced Neil Diamond in one generation and The Beastie Boys in the next one. That almost makes sense. Queens, started with Simon and Garfunkel but then, as population shifted and opportunity regressed, gave birth to The Ramones and, years later, to Chuck D. Again, there is something in the music that correlated to the socio-economic trend.
But Long Island does not abide. It was a generation behind its more urban neighbors and determined to be great on its own terms. It has also always been desperate -- for wealth, recognition and exceptionalism. A recent study found that over 70% of young Long Islanders want to make their future far away from their home. The gravitational pull, however, ensures that the actual number who get out is much smaller. Even if you include those who do eventually leave, one hundred percent of Long Islanders stay in Long Island. Because, as much as it is a geographic entity, it is more so a mindset.
It is this ethos -- fast talking, charming and aggressive but also very needy and gaudy -- that made for high musical variance. To many, Billy Joel is the embodiment of Long Island’s music. Until the 1990s, he was the most popular artist born on the Island. But Billy Joel signified the elevated version of the story -- the “Movin’ Out” version. He was classically trained. He should have been on Broadway. He was desperate. Yes. He had the accent. He talked fast. But Billy Joel didn’t want to be the piano man from Hicksville. He wanted to exorcise that guy so he could be George Gershwin or Paul McCartney in the big city. Or at least in The Hamptons. Long Islanders claimed him and adored him. But critics sniffed out this treachery and punished him for his entire career over it.
While Billy Joel is, perhaps, Long Island’s most famous musical souvenir, he also obscures the great weirdness of the truth. In the 1960s. Moe Tucker, Sterling Morrison and Lou Reed -- misfit Long Islanders -- straddled an increasingly thin musical line between the gutter and glam. In the 1980s, searing Hardcore boiled in the garages and rec centers of the island, only to be trumped in the 1990s by Greenlawn’s most famous export -- Mariah Carey.
Long Island has always teetered between the ugliness of its truth and the prettiness of its lies. There has never been balance and, as a result, the musical byproducts reveal unusually high beta. Not many Pop or Rock stars have come from Long Island. But the ones that do could not have come from anywhere else. After Mariah Carey, the person from Long Island who achieved the greatest fame and fortune through the boldest lie was, of course, Bernie Madoff. Madoff was the apotheosis of decades of extraordinary artifice — a place and time that was so practiced in its lies that the lies began to look and sound like the truth. And his crimes were the logical conclusion of two counties who ignored the truth of The Velvet Underground in favor of the showmanship of Billy Joel and the spectacle of Mariah Carey.
Smack dab in the middle of this narrative -- between Lou Reed and Mariah Carey -- when the truth was at stake, Long Island gave us Eddie Money. With the benefit of time, it's become certain. Long Island isn’t Lou Reed country or Mariah Carey country or Bernie Madoff country. It’s Eddie Money country. Born, Edward Joseph Mahoney, the son of an Irish cop, Eddie Money was the one hit wonder who, from 1977 to 1988, just couldn’t stop making hits.
Eddie Money grew up mostly in Levittown, the same, famous suburb that half of The Velvet Underground escaped from. As a very young man, he was apparently a charming rascal - the cute troublemaker whose indiscretions were forgiven with a wink or a grin. After high school, he briefly flirted with joining his father and grandfather into the police force. But, the straight and narrow was not for him. Within a year, he took his raspy voice, his sturdy build and his luxuriant mop of hair out west, to San Francisco. Eddie Mahoney became Eddie Money. He had only the vaguest idea of what he might become, but he was convinced that his future somehow involved stardom.
In the early 70s, Money bounced around San Francisco, popping up in no name bands and open mic nights. He knocked on doors, hammed it up with anyone and everyone and worked on his original songs. Through equal parts perseverance and great timing, a demo video he made of himself landed on the desk of Bill Graham, the legendary promoter and club owner. Graham, who owned the Fillmore and Winterland ballrooms and was part of the Haight Ashbury royalty, liked what he saw. For the next few years, he would function as Money’s west coast father figure and business manager. And, by 1976, Graham had landed Money a deal with Columbia Records.
What Bill Graham heard on that video, way back when, was a well above average, white Soul singer with a raspy howl that brought to mind Eric Burdon of The Animals. Eddie Money could sing accurately, even when it sounded like his throat was coated with sandpaper. Moreover, he somehow still maintained a Lawng Island accent when he sang. In contrast to the virtuosic singers who filled arenas at the time -- Steve Perry from Journey, Lou Gramm from Foreigner or Dennis DeYoung from Styx -- Eddie Money’s voice had character and relatability. It had grit.
More importantly than what he heard, though, is what Bill Graham could see and imagine. Eddie Money looked like an underdog. Following the sigh of the singer songwriter era, wherein James Taylor, Cat Stevens and a hundred other artists failed to grab the baton from Bob Dylan, the industry began to look in another direction. That direction pointed to New Jersey. Bruce Springsteen was, first and foremost, just a regular guy. But after that, the young Boss was the most desperate and talented songwriter anyone had heard since Dylan. Springsteen, Bob Seger and dozens of great, but lesser artists, ushered in a blue collar reaction to the effete writers who’d been ascribed genius status. This new cohort, though nearly as poetic as their predecessors, wanted to win with blood, guts and sweat.
Eddie Money was no Bruce Springsteen. The Boss had a lower register to his howl, could play the hell out of a guitar, and was born to write songs. And Money was no Seger, either. His midwest forebear had much more range, a decade on the road and a band he could call his own. But Eddie Money had just enough Springsteen -- they grew up equidistant from New York City. And just enough Seger -- blue collar roots and shaggy hair -- to convince the average radio listener that he was cut from the same cloth. In 1977, if they squinted and didn’t listen too closely, what they saw and heard was part Bruce Springsteen and part Sly Stallone. Like Rocky, Eddie Money was an unknown, overmatched contender who wound up in the title fight. Nobody knew exactly how he got there. But they loved the underdog drama.
If Eddie Money had anything over everyone else, it was the heart of a great, Long Island salesman. He had schtick. He had terrible jokes that were terribly endearing. He’d drink a quart of vodka the night before, but still show up at the local radio station promotion on time and with a smile. He wore a suit to every occasion, as if to demonstrate that he took his job very seriously. But then he unbuttoned his shirt three buttons, loosened his necktie around and placed it around his bare neck and chest, so as to confirm the exact opposite. Rock music crowded the airwaves and stores in the late 70s. There was too much of it. As a result, success was often determined by hustle. And Eddie Money was a goddam hustler. He was a mainstay on American Bandstand, politely yucking it up with Dick Clark. He signed every t-shirt and bare chest put in front of him. At the dawn of FM radio, he was there lining the coffers of programmers. And, in the heyday of Sam Goody and Tower Records, Eddie Money was around back, snorting a line with the store manager on autographed copies of his latest LP. Eddie Money could sell.
None of this is to understate his musical appeal. For his debut, Bill Graham paired him with a twenty-one year old guitar prodigy named Jimmy Lyon. Lyon was an incredibly dexterous, almost jazzy, Blues guitarist. He played fluid and clean like Mark Knopfler, but with more weight. In 1977, that pair -- Lyon’s sharp and effortless lead and Money’s raspy, desperate howl -- would make their startling debut. “Eddie Money,” the album, sold millions of copies on account of its singers relentlessness and the undeniability of two songs. “Baby Hold On” was almost instantly a Rock radio classic and a perfect showcase for Money’s pleading and Lyon’s solos. But it was “Two Tickets to Paradise,” a song that dated back to Money’s earliest demos, that closed the sale.
“Two Tickets to Paradise” is the musical equivalent of Rocky knocking down Apollo Creed. Nobody saw it coming. It still doesn’t seem possible. But it happened. And it was perfect. And Eddie Money made it and nobody can take it away from him. It has a heavy soul to the verses before it explodes in its chorus. The lyrics are as meaningless as they are meaningful. They’d never be confused with poetry, but anyone who’s ever heard the song has probably sung along word for word. And, then there is the guitar. Lyon’s leads are as smooth as Money’s voice is rough. His solo resembles Elliott Randall’s more famous jam from “Reelin’ In the Years,” but is more succinct and radio-friendly. If you ever wanted to explain to a martian what was great about late 70s Rock and Roll, you might want to start with this song.
In fact, all of “Eddie Money” sounds great. It’s a simple formula -- muscular R&B with a contemporary, nervy edge that stops just short of New Wave. Sonically, it falls somewhere between peak Thin Lizzy and Mink DeVille’s self-titled debut. Overall, it’s not as good as either, but, then again, neither of those bands made “Two Tickets to Paradise.” And the guitar tones on “Eddie Money” are absolute perfection, thanks to engineer Andy Johns, who, while working with Money and Lyons, was also producing “Marquee Moon.” For such a humble, kind of retro act, Eddie Money sounds very modern on his debut.
Amazingly, what should have been a flash in the pan was not. For the next ten years, Eddie Money kept making above average records with well above average hit singles. And through 1982s “No Control,” he stuck to the same formula. Familiar power chords. Big, yearning choruses. Jimmy Lyons up front and the singer’s voice, with increasing reverb, mixed middle back. Money made all the radio station stops. All the record store stops. Records became cassettes and, eventually, CDs. But Eddie Money kept going. He had market competition -- Robert Palmer (more stylish), Eric Carmen (softer), Sammy Hagar (louder), Rick Springfield (prettier) and the like. But Eddie Money just kept coming back with hits.
When Eddie Money met his wife Laurie, in 1988, she joked that she did not recognize him as a celebrity and had trouble discerning his music from that of Huey Lewis’ and John Cougar’s. Money pretends to be offended when he hears that story. But, in truth, it is both high praise and extremely prescient. More than perhaps any other artist, Eddie Money was market corrected by John Mellencamp. Both men had husky voices and used big, power chords in the context of more traditional styles (R&B for Money and Country for Mellencamp). But Mellencamp was a far greater writer and looked more like the heartland of America when the country wanted to see itself that way. By the time Johnny Cougar got big enough to use his birth name, he was inches away from Eddie Money’s corner.
In the second half of the 80s, Eddie Money could still make hit records. He staved off borrowed time with huge, derivative singles like “Take Me Home Tonight” and “Walk on Water.” Through 1986, he was still platinum selling. But you could see the patina setting in. He was too gaudy. Too salesy. Too desperate. Too cheesy. He’d taken too many drugs and drank too much vodka. There came that moment in time when his clumsy, derivative chauvinism was no longer cute. But Eddie Money did not blink when that moment passed. He wouldn’t have noticed it if it was a screaming red light. Like Rocky Balboa, he didn’t know how to change. He could only take it on the chin. So, by “Nothing to Lose” in 1988, with his hair shorter and blown dry and his eyelids heavy from drink, Eddie Money started to look much less like Sylvester Stallone and much more like his musician brother, Frank Stallone.
The 1990s were the end of the line for Eddie Money, Rock Star. He released just three albums on three different labels. In the very beginning of the decade, he could still scratch the edge of the radio charts, mostly on account of his legacy and good will. His voice was mostly intact, but his career was anything but. A decade earlier, John Mellencamp had identified, and then greatly surpassed, Money’s function in popular music. However, by the end of the 1990s, all of mainstream Rock was vaguely alternative and vaguely generic, in the way that Eddie Money had once been. Poison was the Eddie Money of Metal. Creed was the Eddie Money of Rock. Matchbox 20 was the Eddie Money of Adult Contemporary. Sugar Ray was the Eddie Money of Alternative. In 1999, the name “Eddie Money” had become synonymous with “generic.” It was, sadly, a little true. But, more so, it was an uncharitable joke about an artist who was objectively more talented and enduring than most of what followed.
That year -- 1999 -- when Money was knocked out but somehow still standing, he released “Ready Eddie.” At the end of his decade plus run as a bankable radio mainstay, he’d landed on CMC International, the label where Rock anachronisms from the 70s and 80s went to salvage the remains of their career. CMC excelled at making not embarrassing albums by former stars and by focusing less on radio hits and platinum records and more on core fan service. On the surface, it seemed like a soft landing. The reality was not so gentle. He was still an active drunk and had fallen far from the cultural zeitgeist. He was probably smart enough to know that he was not trendy, but not smart enough to know that he was irrelevant. The thing about being the “King of Generic Rock” is that you are easily replaced. In the 1980s, millions of people loved Eddie Money songs but very few considered him their favorite artist. By the end of the millennium, it was fair to wonder if anyone cared at all.
The short answer was “no.” Nobody cared. “Ready Eddie” had no hits. It charted nowhere. It’s not even available on American streaming services. You can’t cobble it together on Youtube. It’s been virtually erased. It was the tree that fell deep in the forest. To hear it now, you have to search thrift stores, eBay or Discogs. You have to really care about Eddie Money. And, I suspect, those who cared, didn’t care enough in 1999.
When I finally did get a hold of the album, I was reminded that “irrelevant” and “uncool” are by no means the same thing as “bad” or “unlistenable.” “Ready Eddie” is, in fact, totally listenable. Twenty plus years into his career and nearly a decade removed from his long, wrong turn, Eddie Money still sounded a lot like Eddie Money. Without Jimmy Lyons, the guitars lack almost any distinguishing marks. And the melodies are a bit too familiar. But fifty year old Eddie Money could still sing. And he understood to not stray too far away from his formula. The result is an album of mostly catchy, kind of dull, comfortably raspy Rock songs that sound like somebody took an old Eddie Money album and photocopied it until its quality degraded by half.
“Ready Eddie” opens, appropriately, with “Ready to Rock,” a nominally heavy singalong with a big, lackluster chorus which Eddie cedes to lesser back up singers. The song itself is sturdy and, honestly, better than anything Poison ever made. But that low bar is probably the perfect comparison. In 1999, Eddie Money was still better than Poison at their very best. And, as if to remind us of his past glory, he follows the opener with “Don’t Say No Tonight,” which in name and hook, calls back to “Take Me Home Tonight.” Everything people loved and hated about Eddie Money is on display -- the soulful pleading, the banal cliches, the “are we sure he didn’t steal that” melodies. By almost every measure, it is a cheesy track. But, I must say, it has the sound of a summer radio hit. It’s as original as Kid Rock’s biggest singles, and eons more listenable.
Without the pressures of radio or retail, Money was able to try a couple of new things in middle age. For one, the guitars are much heavier here than during his prime. Whereas Jimmy Lyons could jazz up a Deep Purple riff, Tom Girvin sands the edges of AC/DC or Guns N’ Roses here. On “It’s Gotta Be Love” and “When You Gonna Satisfy Me,” the singer sounds like he’s fronting a highly competent, late 80s Hair Metal band. These songs are more bluesy than thrashy, but they have some heft to them nonetheless. Unfortunately, the style was both a decade too late and not a fit for Money’s voice. While the quality and tone of his voice remained intact, its force and range did not. And, while he was a fast talker in interviews, as a singer, Eddie Money liked to drive in the middle of the road, at exactly fifty five miles per hour. These songs ask him to be a little fast and reckless. And Money did not make his fortune taking risks.
Predictably, there are several, set piece, power ballads spread across the album. “Turn the Light Off” is a very competent, modest example that makes room for the piano and the singer to do their very best. It’s not much, but it is a reminder of Money’s charm. Conversely, "Can't Go On,” is a garish power ballad, overdecorated with acoustic guitar (so you know it’s sensitive) and a loud, flat chorus, that resembles Creed. Of the many gaffes here, it’s ultimately the autotune that nudges the song past sentimental towards sad. It strips the singer of his last vestige of physical prowess.
On “Let It Go (Dedicated to Jack and Diane),” Money makes the first of two unmistakable Mellencamp references. It’s a good enough Rock song, with just a dash of Honky Tonk. “Need to Rock,” however, is not simply homage. It is an almost straight-up lift of “R.O.C.K. in the U.S.A.” And, you know what? It’s not half bad. It may not be half good, but it does make you wonder how much young John Cougar listened to Eddie Money and what the latter could have been if he could write songs like the former.
The album closes with "Broken Down Chevy (God Only Knows),” an unexpectedly deep, almost swampy, Blues number in the vein of John Lee Hooker or ZZ Top. Money was always more Rhythm than Blues, but here he handles both with aplomb. It’s a mildly surprising end to a largely unsurprising album.
“Ready Eddie” was the last album of originals that Eddie Money ever made. He eked out one more covers record in 2007. But that was it. He finally got sober in 2001. And, with his wife Laurie, he had five children and went on to live a comedically domestic life in the twenty first century. He kept his mop top, even after most of the hair disappeared. He still wore suits out to performances. And, like his father and grandfather, he took great pride in the pork chops he had on the dinner table.
In his later years, Money transitioned from filling arenas to supporting larger, “where are they now” acts at smaller casinos and state fairs. By the end, his voice was shot and his dancing looked dangerous. But there was still giddy joy when he’d play the hits. And, to be clear, he exclusively played the hits. To anyone who asked, and to many who didn’t, he’d announce: “I’m Eddie Money. Your mother was a big fan of mine.”
In 2018, Money and his family starred in “Real Money,” a not very funny, reality TV comedy that owed almost everything to “The Osbournes.” While the show was sweet enough and confirmed that he’d saved more than enough of his earnings, it also cast the former star as something of a bumbling relic. The next year, the singer was diagnosed with stage four cancer. Within months, he was dead.
Upon his passing, fans and bands alike shared memories that confirmed everything everyone thought about Eddie Money. Fans tweeted every pun imaginable involving “Take Me Home Tonight” and “Two Tickets to Paradise.” Meanwhile, REO Speedwagon and Sammy Hagar went on and on about how Money was always the life of the party, always happy to be at the table, always quick with a joke, always the optimist, always full of shit. Each version of the story read like an inverse “Death of a Salesman.”
More than Willy Loman, Eddie Money always kind of reminded me of Steve Balboni, a big, moustached, journeyman first baseman for the Kansas City Royals and New York Yankees. Over his long career, Balboni contributed one more victory than a generic, replacement level player would have. Not one win per year. One incremental win over eleven years. Balboni was thick and had shaggy hair. He had the look of an average guy, with above average likability. He struck out all the time. He was not fast in any way. He couldn’t field at all. He didn’t hit for average. But when he hit a home run, holy shit did it go far. Steve Balboni was not likely born to be a professional athlete. But through his singular skill and grit, he hit a bunch of mammoth dingers. The comparison probably doesn’t hold up, but, for some reason it has stuck with me.
Eddie Money was kind of like Steve Balboni. He wasn’t as musical as Billy Joel or as operatic as Bruce or as heartfelt as Mellencamp. He was just a guy. He was a really good singer and a full of shit ham who got off the island and exceeded whatever potential he was born with. And, every year or two, he hit the ball five hundred feet. If a million Eddie Moneys were born on Long Island, only one of them could have become Eddie Money. He sold millions of albums. He wrote “Two Tickets to Paradise.” Eddie Money was the opposite of generic.