In the fall of ’75, alone at age nineteen, I moved from a manicured New Jersey suburb into Manhattan’s part residential/part brothel Hotel Bretton Hall on the corner of 86th and Broadway. The area was considered edgy because of its record breaking rapes, burglaries, assaults and murders—a good thing because rents were low. At $125 a month, my 11th floor studio apartment included heat (but not electric), a hot plate, a refrigerator, a small coat closet—and for no extra charge—one large rat that I eventually drowned in the bathtub.

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In my hallway, a makeshift red light blinked on and off as it dangled precariously from the ceiling on a single wire. My future dangled with it like the destiny of any unprepared teenager. The swirling light led ‘Johns’ to the apartment around the corner where pimps in big hats upheld a dicey business. Drunken customers banged on my door in the middle of the night and I became a master at yelling wrong apartment in my sleep. Each night as dusk approached, I looked out my window and watched the ‘girls’ gather on the streets below wondering what I might do for work.

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“Name the avenues in order from West to East,” barked Ernest Chude, a scrappy realtor whose vision it was to fill the Bretton Hall with artists, musicians, actors, singers, and dancers. “Uh, First? Does it start with First? It makes sense that First Avenue would be first. Doesn’t it?” I jabbered. Chude was working with the police and maybe even the mafia in cleaning up the building from its fleabag, hooker-ridden state. I was interviewing for a job as his assistant. Despite my complete lack of knowledge, I landed the position only to quit after a month due to lack of pay. As I exited the job, Chude’s girlfriend Trudy invited me to record some of my songs at Mediasound Recording Studios where she was in training as something I had never heard of—a recording engineer. I took it for granted that the sessions, which were practice for Trudy, came free to me.

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Media, as everyone liked to call the place, was housed in a bygone church building located between 8th and 9th avenues on West 57th Street. Entering the edifice under its historic archway and through a pair of enormous wooden stained-glass doors never failed to evoke a feeling of importance. John Roberts and Joel Rosenman two ‘young men with unlimited capitol’ were the financiers behind Media as well as the famed Woodstock festival. The third partner, wedding band trumpeter, Bob Walters was the hands-on studio boss. Tony Bongiovi (Jon Bon Jovi’s uncle) formerly of Motown Records and Record Plant Recording Studio was chief engineer and rainmaker. He was considered the ‘sound prodigy’ who attracted many of Media’s recording stars.

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About three days into my first recording stint at Media, I clambered up the stairs to studio manager Susan Planer’s office and applied for a job. I had no experience, no resume, and absolutely no knowledge of the recording process. In fact, I thought that if I touched tape it would erase.  During the interview, Planer forewarned me of the prejudice against aspiring women engineers in what was then a male dominated industry. But none of that mattered to me. I wasn’t hankering for a career in audio engineering. I just needed money and a place to record my music. The best route to that design, it appeared, was to become an audio engineer.

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Planer got right to the point by asking if I were a groupie to which I truthfully replied no. Even as far back as high school, I considered all rock stars ‘colleagues’. Satisfied with my reply, she introduced me to Walters who questioned my background as it pertained to engineering. Since I had absolutely nothing to offer or lose, I improvised, “My mother’s an electrician and my father’s a piano tuner.” In truth my father was a hair dresser and my mother a housewife. Walters smiled broadly. He was clearly impressed with my falsified DNA and I was hired on the spot as a fulltime shipping clerk. Everyone, even renowned mixer Bob Clearmountain, started out in the shipping department—wrapping, mailing and delivering packages to clients in all corners of the city for the fulltime salary of $90 a week; $88 after taxes.

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The days were long and hard during the record breaking winter of ’75 trudging around the city with heavy packages; I was frozen to the bone. Fortunately for me, an engineer in training was fired and before the winter was over, I was promoted from foot messenger to assistant engineer. Walters championed my promotion by bragging about my parental heritage, which he boasted about until his dying day. I never saw the point of correcting him.

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As Planer forewarned, engineering was fraught with sexism and even some bullying. I doubt she ever knew the extent of it. Since I had grown up with three brothers, I was able to circumvent some of the provocations during my twelve hour shifts and six day work weeks. At times though I’d just burst out in tears and when the crying was over, I’d soldier on. Media had become my college and I wasn’t about to drop out.

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At Media, I learned from the best: Brian Eno, Bob Clearmountain, Tony Bongiovi, Ed Stasium, Ron Dante, Charlie Calello, Harvey Jay Goldberg, Godfrey Diamond, Michael Barbiero, Michael Delugg, Joe Jorgensen (father of Mikael Jorgensen of Wilco), Fred Christie, Gerry Block, Talking Heads, Laura Nyro, Ramones, Lou Reed, Genya Ravan Frank Sinatra, Barbara Streisand, Rupert Holmes, Sparks, Nile Rogers and Chic, Fat Back Band, Stuff, David Essex, Van McCoy, the Brecker Brothers, Felix Pappalardi, Linda Ronstadt, Daryl Hall, Barry Manilow, Millie Jackson, Barbra Streisand, Luther Vandross, Mick Jagger, Keith Richards, Kool & the Gang, the Manhattans and many more in a studio where Stevie Wonder, Ray Charles, Aretha Franklin, Pat Benetar, Aerosmith, Tina Turner, Whitney Houston, Bruce Springsteen, Billy Joel, and Mariah Carey among others had also recorded.