Nov. 3, 2009: My home in Toronto
“Oh my god, Dan! Get up here. Now!”
I’m in my basement studio, cutting a vocal, when my wife’s shout all but shatters my headphones. The last time Bev shrieked this loud was a life-and-death situation, when a young man, armed and recently released from jail, had tried to shake our family down for money.
This time, though, I find Bev hopping up and down in front of the television like a tween watching Justin Bieber. A charismatic young man is singing to talk-show host Jimmy Kimmel’s studio audience. Women of all ages squirm, whoop and howl.
At last Bev says dreamily, “It’s Manny Pacquiao, the boxing champ. But don’t you recognize the song?”
It’s my song Sometimes When We Touch, and the audience is going crazy. Crazier still, is that Pacquiao – a Filipino pound for pound regarded as the world’s best boxer – is crooning this song with surprising tenderness and conviction.
Since I co-wrote and released that song in the late seventies, there have been thousands of covers of it, and most have left me underwhelmed. Because of the song’s uber-emotionality and demanding vocal range, pop stars tend to over-sing it, turning the lyric into a four-minute soap opera. But something about Pacquiao’s vocal leaves me strangely moved.
Two weeks later, Nashville
I’m in a deli with Fred Mollin, my long-time friend and co-producer. I casually flip open my computer and click on “Manny Sings.” Fred becomes glued to the screen.
Eerily, at this very moment, a TV mounted on the wall spews out news of an upcoming boxing match between Pacquiao and Floyd Mayweather.
“We’ve gotta make a record with Manny,” Fred says.
“And who, other than God, is able to actually contact Manny Pacquiao?” I ask. “This guy is the Elvis of the boxing world. Did you know that whenever Manny boxes, crime stops in the Philippines? He’s even been elected to Congress there. He’s got about as much free time to record with me as Barack Obama.”
December, 2010: Toronto
A phone call wakes me in the middle of the night. It’s Matthew McCauley, the other half (with Fred Mollin) of my production team. If it were anyone else, I’d be mad as hell. But I’ve been waking up to Matt’s 3 a.m. phone calls since we were both scrawny Toronto kids making music together in the 1960s in our Don Mills neighbourhood.
“Danny, I’ve set up a meeting with Manny Pacquiao and his handler, Mike Koncz. We’re going to Manhattan to discuss making a record.”
June 4, 2010: New York
I’m sitting in a café with Matt and Fred, in Manhattan’s opulent St. Regis Hotel. My friends wear the gloomy look of adolescents stood up by their dream dates. We’ve been here for a couple of hours.
“What if Manny doesn’t show up?” Fred asks.
Matt shuffles restlessly in his seat, doubtless feeling responsible.
“Look, guys, they’ll be here,” Matt says. “We’re on boxing time, that’s all.”
A few more lonely minutes tick by, then Koncz finally appears to escort us to Manny’s suite. Just as he reveals that Sometimes When We Touch is Pacquiao’s all-time favourite song, the door to the suite swings open, and there is the man himself, beaming as he greets us in a soft voice.
Though I’m thunderstruck to be meeting this brilliant boxer – in town to accept a Fighter of the Decade award – Pacquiao humbly flips the script, making us feel as though we’re royalty. Or better: family.
Room service wheels in a feast, and he insists we eat. “It’s part of Filipino culture to make guests feel at home,” he says.
As we dig in, Matt cuts to the point: We want to record a Sometimes When We Touch duet with him.
“We were all so struck by the sincerity of your cover,” I venture.
